So I was thinking today about some of the crazy “dates” I’ve been on. Some of these memories are comical, some are tragic, and some are downright embarrassing. What perfect fodder for me to give to you!

Note: For those challenged at reading between the lines, implied meaning is conveniently placed between parentheses. That’s () for those who don’t know that already.

Let’s start this story with a little bit of history: Recently out of a horrible relationship filled with fireworks (which means we fought like cats and dogs, so of course the sex was fantastic) and wanting to explore my sexuality (which means I finally decided to do something about seeing all these crazy sexy guys and get some cock) I joined this online “dating” site (dating is in quotes because it’s a site that was designed to help men find other men who were currently horny so they could fuck without having to end up being arrested like George Michael’s and the whole Bathroomgate thing), because, let’s face it, Craigslist is great for finding a used couch/refrigerator/drug dealer, but trying to find a disease free guy…good luck.

A large chunk of the guys were strictly looking for hookups (which are stories for a completely different post)(the prior set of parentheses were not for those challenged at reading between the lines, but strictly for clarifying that this post is not about some fling filled with crazy sex had with an amazing Latin lover…not that it ever happened…and not that it couldn’t…it very well could…and might have…carry on), but some of the guys were actually looking for something a little more long-term than a one hour meet & fuck. That’s where I met this guy…let’s call him Fuzz. Now Fuzz, on paper, seemed like a great guy. He had a personality, the same dry sense of humor, and was intelligent. The fact we were both in food service was also a plus.

He invited me out one night with a group of his friends to play pool, and we wound up hanging out and talking for hours. It seemed like things were going swell.

And then we went on a REAL date…

Firstly, having spent years in management, if I’m going to go on a date with a manager, I completely expect there to be a phone call and/or tardiness. So the fact our 7pm dinner was pushed back to almost 9pm didn’t faze me. I was actually prepared and waited at the coffee shop we were to meet at with a magazine and a book. Shit happens, especially for managers of restaurants. I didn’t expect, however, for our plans to be completely changed and for me to have to find my way into some neighborhood I’d never been to, nor even knew existed, with only a five minute time frame in order to pick him up instead of meeting at said coffee shop. I agreed to a date, not to be a coffee delivery man.

I had planned on taking him to a great Thai place I’d scoped out with a “friend” (it’s in quotes because we had dated and had great sex and still occasionally hung out and watched porn together so, basically, she was kind of a special friend without having any benefits other than getting to listen to her moan and the like, as that would have been written “FRIEND” instead of merely “friend”) which it turns out closed at 9pm. Apparently Fuzz didn’t like the idea of having a romantic dinner under the stars in the bed of a pickup. Strike one, Fuzz.

So we wound up at Buffalo Wild Wings, sipping drinks, and neither of us enjoying ourselves because we couldn’t hear no matter how loud we were and we kept getting horrible looks and threatening glares from the other drunken male patrons. Then his phone goes off. It was a friend, “Hey, come help me fix my car!”

The date then devolved into him stripping into a wife beater (which I thought would be sexy but HOLY SHIT he had more back hair than a chimp!) and crawling around underneath a car (ok, that was kind of sexy) while I sat and chatted with his friend, who, it turns out, was a friend of mine from high school’s completely annoying little brother.

We then wound up at Jim’s (think Denny’s with better food and worse service) with his friend and his friend for four hours. Then I took him home and got an, “I’d invite you in, but my mom’s asleep on the couch, but maybe we could…you know…park in the driveway…” Yeah, sure, Fuzz, let’s just park in the driveway and have wild, crazy butt sex in front of the livingroom window RIGHT WHERE YOUR MOTHER CAN WATCH US FUCK!

So, why did Fuzz strike out? I mean, sure, talking about your ex who’s obsessed with you to the point of carving your name into his chest while institutionalised and the other ex of yours you set him up with but the guy really only agreed because he thought the guy was kind of hot and was hoping for some super crazy porn style three-way action was bad enough, but, seriously, there are razors for a reason. Watching that guy propose to his chick through a message shaved into his back hair was funny, but, ultimately, not something I wish to experience.

Plus, I don’t enjoy having sex with a laptop sharing bed space. I enjoy using every bit of bed space there is to use during sex, thank you very much and, unfortunately, Fuzz had this obsession with technology and had to have a gadget touching him constantly. I asked about showering but, honestly, I was too terrified to ask about how that worked while having sex. The laptop-on-the-bed-thing is the best case scenario. Worst case involves a corded mouse and strange gyrations in order to play Minesweeper.

Dance your cares away,
Worry’s﻿ for another day.
Let the music play,
Down at Fraggle Rock.
Work you cares away,
Dancing’s for another day.
Let the Fraggles play,
We’re Gobo, Mokey, Wembley, Boober, Red.
Dance your cares away,
Worry’s for another day.
Let the music play,
Down at Fraggle Rock.
Down at Fraggle Rock.
Down at Fraggle Rock.

So a couple of years ago I started reading Sluggy Freelance and fell in love with it. It wasn’t a love at first sight thing by any means. I just couldn’t get that first set of strips out of my head and finally decided to sit down and read the damned thing. This was around September of 2007. I finally finished the archives and caught up during this storyline (at which point I promptly stopped reading). That was a lot of reading.

And a lot of inspiration. Not for stories, unfortunately, although I don’t think anyone can beat Abrams’ imagination. But it makes me want to draw. Drawing has always been something I enjoy, but it’s always been something I’ve had to work at, and no one has ever supported me in it. Ever.

With music I have talent. I’m not the best musician, but if you throw an instrument at me, I can play it. I’m the same way with writing essays and mechanics. There are just certain things certain people have a knack for. Those are my things.

So why not just go forth and do one of those things I have a knack for? Because that would be easy, and I don’t like easy. I mean, yeah, the slut at the bar makes for a great one night stand, but do you really want a relationship with someone who puts out that fast? Who else has she been with? Do you really feel you can have a worthwhile relationship with that person? What makes that relationship so worthwhile is the work you both put into it, not how fast you nailed it.

So they refused to pick up our recycling yesterday. And why did they refuse to pick up our recycling, you ask? Because we didn’t waste plastic bags by putting the recyclables inside of them. Because, hello, we’re trying to be green and we can’t very well be wasteful and green, now, can we? That’s like telling your kid, “Hey, sweetie, see that pot on the stove? It’s going to be very, VERY hot. Why don’t you go over and grab it by the sides with your bare hands for Daddy? Who’s a good girl?”

And I’ve been on a hunt for two things, lately: asparagus and an mp3 player. I have had no luck finding either and it’s kind of upsetting. I mean, yeah, sure, I could by the overly expensive asparagus in the plastic steamer bag for $5, but, you know what? I don’t want to! Hell, if I wanted to spend that much on one meal, I’d just go to some fast food joint and get a burger.

No, don’t get me started on the people, either! Ok, I’ve gotten myself started on the people.

Went to Wal-Mart, and what did I find? Nothing that I needed, but I did find two chunky girls dancing in the parking lot for two hot guys. And then another chick pulled up (saying she was chunky would be the understatement of the year) and joined them and grabbed one of the other chick’s boyfriend’s crotch, and then everyone got in their cars and drove away.

I mean, if you have an open relationship, cool. If you like 300+ pound women, also cool. But that doesn’t mean that I need to see it. Crotch grabbing is something that should either be kept in the bedroom or used as self-defense (remember, you have to twist and squeeze for the ultimate effect). I don’t go around grabbing crotches in public. That woman is a pubic nuisance!

And before I start getting hate mail or horrified screaming comments about “fatphobia” and the like, let me say this: I do not like skinny women. You’ve gotta have some meat on your bones for me to even notice your existence. But I do draw the line at about 250 pounds for my own personal preference and safety. I dated a 400 pound chick and, well, let’s just say that’s a post for another day, shall we?

My store is foul. FOUL I SAY! It’s like no one understands clean is a verb. The floor gets mopped maybe once a day. The trash cans get cleaned…mmmmm…I’m just gonna say never. And I’m sure at least one person is thinking “But why do you need to clean trash cans?” Well, when you live in South Texas it get’s pretty darned hot, and heat + trash = STINKY!

Yeah, it’s that bad. And not only that, but apparently there’s a clerk, a plain old clerk, who gets paid something like $7.50/hr doing assistant manager work. I’m not okay with this. So I’ve got a call out to The Boss to find out what’s going on with this. This kids doing a decent job. He could use someone to ride his ass (no, not like that you sick freak, he’s married…although he is kinda cute…STOP MAKING ME THINK BAD THINGS!) and get him to move a bit more. Coming in everyday to full trash and dirty floors and nothing stocked is NOT ok. But that’s just par for the course at this store, which makes me sad. Also, it makes me angry.

If they DO want me to be a manager at this store, a lot of people are going to be pissed because if it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s laziness in the workplace. I mean hello, it’s called “work” for a reason. If you want to get paid to just stand around and only occasionally have to do something important, get a security job manning the gate of a warehouse or something.

Yeah, that’s right, I just talked a little smack about the security industry. But I can do that because I did that.

So today is one of my good friend’s birthday (birthdays/birthday’s….which one is it? Does the singular possessive go with “friend” AND “birthday”? Why does grammar have to be so damned difficult?) Yay for him. He’s now 27. And since I’m older than him I feel obligated to warn him about things.

Firstly, you’re almost 30. If you want to go out and do some crazy shit, do it now. People are going to start looking at you like you’re nuts if you decide you wanna wait until your 40th birthday to go skydiving. But, remember, you’re over 25 now, and have been for a little bit, so grocery cart/golf cart stunts are now out of the question. You get more fragile as you get older, so be very wary you don’t do anything too dangerous, or you might break a hip. And we sure remember how much fun that is, don’t we?

Second, take pictures! It’s at this point you should be realizing you’re not going to live forever and so you MUST start practicing your incessant, annoying picture sharing and take pictures of anything and everything you possibly can. Be it your cats, your backyard, the massive deuce you just dropped, it doesn’t matter. Snap a shot and share it on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter. Hell, print it out and show it to the person standing behind you in line at the grocery store. Remember, practice makes perfect and you absolutely must practice so people go “OH MY GOD IT’S ANNOYING PICTURE GUY” and not “Holy shit it’s creepy picture guy“. There IS a difference.

Third, and this is important, you have to become psychologically unfit to hold an intelligent conversation if you plan on being heterosexual throughout the rest of this period of your life. It is a scientifically proven fact that single, heterosexual men are unable to carry on a conversation about anything during this phase of their life, especially if it’s serious. The conversation of your chick getting pregnant should go something like this:

Her: Honey, I’ve got news!

You: The news ain’t on til later.

Her: No, sweety, I’m pregnant.

You: I think Einstein may have been wrong but I can’t figure out where he dropped the decimal.

Lastly, and most importantly, remember: The older you are, the less attractive hangovers are.

So I woke up Monday morning to a missed call from work. Great. This never bodes well. Usually I’m getting yelled at for not doing something or getting yelled at for doing something or someone called out and I gotta work an extra day/shift/whatever. It’s just never a good thing to have that missed call from work and the cryptic, “Hey, Uriah, it’s your boss, give me a call when you get the chance, I have a very important question to ask you.”

I was very pleasantly surprised when I called back and was asked if I wanted to be promoted. I said yes, and that was about it.

Wait, what? You mean something actually kind of went my way? This totally never happens to me. EVER.

So, I’m now the new assistant manager of Hell. Unfortunately, one of the employees wants to be the assistant manager of Hell, which is actually kind of a good thing, since, while I want to be an assistant manager for now, I don’t want to be THE assistant manager of HELL. No. Sorry. I took it because I’m the most trained (there’s all of, like, two things I don’t know yet) and he’s, well, not so much trained. It wouldn’t make sense to turn down the position with its raise and bonus and better benefits and blahblahblah…

Needless to say, I have a plan. And, hopefully, the plan will work. Que evil maniacal laughter now.